


Starcrossed

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Post-Movie(s), description of injury, not smut but whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier searches for answers, choosing to break into Steve's apartment after visiting the Smithsonian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was perched on a rooftop near Steve Rogers’ apartment building.  Earlier that night he’d figured out Rogers, Captain America, his failed last mission, he didn’t know what to call him, had told him the truth, that they were friends, not that he necessarily knew what a friend was. No room in his mind for memories of friends or memories at all, just tactical intuition and imageless pain, a tangible emptiness that hungered at the sight of those museum displays.

Starving for answers, he found himself staking out Rogers’ apartment.  Of all the people who could possibly provide him with answers while not screwing him over, Steve Rogers was his best bet.  There was also the fact that Rogers would be looking for him, so his best tactic was not to be found, because that would happen whether it was by Hydra or America’s most revered defender, but to reveal himself on his own terms. 

He knew his biographical basics already.  Born 1917. Orphaned.  Raised in the same orphanage as his former hit. Fought and fell alongside him during WWII.  These objective pieces of history were just trivia, no real info that could trigger a significant well of memories, could tell him what he wanted to know: why Rogers was willing to die than to kill him.

A disgruntled motorcycle sounded from around the corner; Barnes now had a visual on his target.  Any last dregs of SHIELD had not provided Rogers with security in the case that the Winter Soldier might try to complete his mission, but to be honest, was there any security besides Captain America himself that could match him?

There were no obstacles as he expertly broke into the dim apartment. He had less than a minute until Rogers would open the door, so he positioned himself in the kitchen, just enough light hitting him that he’d be concealed but that he wouldn’t be completely invisible to his target.  A lock clicked, and a hulking frame drifted in with the light from the hallway, carrying a cloth sack of groceries. The door closed, taking the light with it, and Rogers finally looked up from his thoughts to catch the desolate eyes that now belonged to the Winter Soldier.


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn’t going to be the first to speak.  There hadn’t been enough time to check the apartment for surveillance devices.  He pulled a piece of paper from the kitchen counter and wrote before Rogers could respond to his presence.

_Safe to talk?_

“I debugged the place yesterday.” Rogers set his bag down and took a seat at the table.  Barnes had planned on opting for a second location to talk if the place was compromised, but now he could get somewhat settled in, sit down and take off his ball cap at least.

Rogers wasn’t at ease. The man who had tried to kill him multiple times, the man whom he had called his friend, was sitting right across from him; Barnes could see how much it pained him to keep vigilant, wary for an attack despite his hope that “Bucky” was still there.  He hoped he was still there, too.

 

“You want answers.” It was more of a statement affirming where they stood at the moment than a question.

“Everyone I used to know I knew is dead, so my answers are all on you.”

“Where do you want to start?” 

No hesitation. “Our fight on the helicarrier. Why did you refuse to kill me?”

“The same reason why you pulled me outta the Potomac.”  
“And what reason is that?”

Rogers stumbled on this one, taking his time to gather the correct words, cinching his brow and gazing blankly at the table where their friendship supposedly played before his eyes.

“Trust.”

“Trust?  Trust in what.  Give me something I can work with.”

“Trust that when it came down to the wire, the Bucky I know wouldn’t let me die.”

He was getting nowhere with this; if he didn’t phrase his responses just right, they’d waste hours talking in circles.  “I know we were friends.  We were raised together; we fought together.  This is shit I’ve memorized,” he brought his right hand to his temple, tapping it there in frustration, “There’s no _meaning_ that I can connect to.  No _memories_ to back it up.”

He could tell he’d made a mistake.  Referring to their friendship in the past tense in such detached terms hurt Rogers, and for some reason it hurt Barnes to realize this.

“If it’s memories you want, I’ll give you one,” Rogers leaned forward to put his elbows on the table, “January 1937.  I had a real bad case of pneumonia, and you wouldn’t leave my side in case I died while you were away. I tried to convince you that I’d be fine and that you needed to work to pay your rent, but you told me that not even a dinner invitation from the President could make you leave, that if you were the sick one, I sure as hell wouldn’t leave either.” Rogers lightened, smiling as he recounted the rest of the story.  “They fired you the next day, and after I got better, you had to stay at my place for a month until you saved up enough from your new job to pay your own rent.”  The nostalgia fell from his eyes when his gaze returned to Barnes. As much as he wanted it to, none of this was coming back to him. It showed on his face, and Rogers read it clearly.

“We were all each other had, and you didn’t say it, but I know you would’ve rather been homeless than let me die alone.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Fuck._

_Steve’s fever had risen, and he couldn’t replace the cold washcloths or refill his bucket of snow from outside fast enough.  The two of their wages combined wouldn't come close to paying for the medical care Steve needed, so he made due._

_“Ma?”  Shit, he was hallucinating; this was bad.  “Ma…water, please…”_

_“Steve, it’s me. Wake up.  I’ve got some water for you.”_

_Steve’s eyes flitted open, ”Where did ma, go?”_

_“She’ll be back in a second just drink some of this.”  There was no way he was going to make him feel worse by telling him TB had taken his mother years earlier.  He held up Steve’s head while he drank so he wouldn’t choke and go into another coughing fit.  God, his head was so hot, sweat covering his pillow.  He set Steve’s head back down once he’d finished off the glass._

_It had been days since he’d slept, but he wasn’t going to give into sleep until Steve’s fever broke._

_“Bucky.”  Steve’s hoarse voice stole his attention._

_“Bucky, I’m so…tired. I don’t know…” He drifted off._

_“Steve?” He checked his forehead again, tried to rouse him. His voice gained a panicked edge to it. “Steve?” He patted his cheeks, held his face over his mouth to search for his low, labored breathing, searching for a pulse and finding a faint rhythm._

_“Steve, Steve, come on. Please Steve, stay with me.  God DAMMIT, STEVE, TALK TO ME.”  His panic escalated with each passing second that his friend failed to respond.  He shoved more snow into washcloths under his armpits and back all the while holding snow directly to the skin of Steve’s burning forehead._

_Who knows how much time had passed.  Two hours?  Two minutes?  It didn’t matter because Steve’s voice broke Bucky’s frantic mumbling._

_“Jeez, Bucky, watch the shouting.  Some of us are trying to sleep.”  Steve grinned faintly up at Bucky, fever gone but still extremely weak._

_He couldn’t have been anymore relieved.  Bucky loosely gripped the back of Steve’s neck and pulled their foreheads together. “I swear, if you try and die like that again, I’ll knock you into next week.”  Steve was too tired to laugh, but Bucky could sense his amusement and relief anyway._

_With both the adrenaline and threat to his best friend’s life gone, Bucky removed any remaining cold washcloths, shifted Steve to the less damp side of the bed, and passed out from exhaustion, cradling Steve’s sleeping form._

***

He awoke on an unfamiliar couch in an equally unfamiliar apartment.  The night’s events flooded back to him.  His conversation with Steve.  Steve opting to sleep instead of pursuing their dead-end discussion. _“I don’t expect you to stay, but if you do, the couch should be comfortable enough to sleep on.”_ And then the dream.  Was that the story Steve had told him earlier?  He was awake, but the emotional residue was still there.  The relief that Steve’s fever had broke flooded his chest with warmth.

No.

Not Steve.  He was Rogers. Rogers who he’d fought and nearly killed multiple times. 

He felt a foreign metallic shape graze his side, looked down to find his Hydra-constructed arm.  Whoever he was, he wasn’t the man in the dream, at least not anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the feedback I'm getting. Please feel free to correct me on the details as a few of you already have; it improves the story, which is best for everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

The clock read 1:11am.   _Only two hours of sleep, perfect._ His shoulder was stiff, sore, and the couch definitely wasn't doing him any favors.  The dream might have woken him up, but it was his back that going to keep him up.  He stripped off his jacket carefully to get a better look at his swollen, purple shoulder.  Some blood and other fluid had seeped through his stitches and layers of bandages, forming a circle-like blotch.  It was probably about time to doctor it again.

***

Steve didn’t usually text people unless the situation required it.  Talking on the telephone was simply more familiar to him even if the phones had shrunk in size and expanded in functions.

But now with the possibility of Bucky listening in, he didn’t want to risk it.

“Hey, Sam, I need to talk to you.”

Steve had taken his time considering how to proceed with rehabilitating Bucky.  He contemplated everything from how Bucky might need to disguise himself if he were to stay with him to who needed to know his whereabouts.  For the latter, he settled on a very short list of people he could trust to keep his guest a secret: Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff.  Nat had her own business to conduct, but judging by Sam’s rejection of Fury’s offer and eagerness to assist in his search for Bucky, he had no reason not to inform him immediately about the situation.

Only a few seconds after texting his friend did he receive a response; apparently he wasn’t the only one having trouble getting to sleep.

“is everything alright?”

“I found Bucky. Well, he found me.”

His phone started to vibrate from an incoming call, Sam; he pressed the red button designated for hanging up.

“can’t talk. He might wake up and hear.”

“did he hurt you?”

“No, we just talked.”

“Good..”

Sounds of life made their way to his bedroom.  Even with his door shut, he heard someone stirring and wandering around the apartment. Still holding the phone, he pulled back his comforter and slowly cracked his door open to get a look at the living room.  Alas, no Bucky.

“Do you want me to come over?”  The phone’s vibration now seemed too loud now that he knew he wasn’t the only one awake in the apartment.

“He’s awake. Talk later. ”

“Be careful.”

 ***

He could heal faster than most people with what Hydra had done to him, but his arm was still a fucking mess. Everything was set up on the kitchen counter: bandages, medical tape, scissors if his stitches should need to come out, and ice bag.  All he needed now was some ice from the fridge to fill said bag.

“You alright, Buck?”

Rogers approached him from what he assumed was his room.  Although he was wearing a pair of navy pajamas, his hair indicated he hadn’t been sleeping. With his free arm, Barnes pulled off his shirt for unrestricted access to his shoulder.

“Just a battle wound.” Thank god he’d returned to the Hydra base in time to force the remaining staff to repair any warped metal and tend to his broken arm, otherwise he’d be in even deeper shit.

“Sorry about that.” Steve…Rogers, whatever, was trying to play it light. 

Unfortunately, there was no amount of apologizing Barnes could do that would help his situation. He looked over at the living room wall, newly spackled in three spots, where bullets had pierced and found their target.  He remembered that; he actually remembered a surprising amount of his missions as the Winter Solider.  It was just who he’d been before the initial memory wipe that was struggling to resurface.

He didn’t respond. Steve didn’t have to be sorry; Barnes had been a weapon he needed to stop, simple as that.  But he _was_ sorry, and that just compounded the guilt he carried for nearly killing him.

Wincing, he hissed as he peeled the tape off his skin.

“I can help if you can’t—“

“I’m fine.” Barnes bit back, not fully understanding his own severe response, but when he saw the hopeful light fade from Steve’s eyes, he changed his answer with a sigh. “Just…I can’t exactly reach it.”  He held the medical tape toward Steve, but he didn’t take it.

“Let’s get a look at it first before we patch it up.”  The bandage’s sides came off easy; it was just the middle that stung like hell. “Almost there…got it.  Hold on.”  The hands that had inflicted the wound now lay gently across his back, steadying him as he inspected the swelling.  “Have you been using this arm a lot?”  What sort of question was that, of course he had.  There were buildings to climb and people to threaten. “Yeah, why?”

“Well, for one, it’s broken, so it should be secured in a sling or cast. Two, you’re ripping your stitches. It shouldn’t be bleeding this much for how long you’ve had it.  I think you need to stay here until you’ve recovered, or else your arm’s not gonna work like it used to.”

“How long will that take?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see.  In the meantime, you should keep from moving that arm _at all_ , clear?”

“Yessir.” He responded mockingly with just a hint of a smirk.  Seeing this man expressing such genuine concern hit him strangely. Then again, who in his memory had ever treated him as something other than an _asset_ or an obstacle?

Steve went to work inspecting the stitches, cleaning anything from the wound, and fashioning a makeshift sling to hold Barnes’ arm immobile, close to his body.  Cold poured from the freezer as Steve opened it to fill the ice bag.  Cold…wrapping around his bare chest, suffocating him. _They’d need to freeze him soon. He’d been out for too long._

Where the apartment had been was now replaced with a small room, packed with scientific equipment. _What was his name, oh god, where was he?_   Black crept along the edges of his vision, and the last thing he remembered were careful arms encircling him before he hit the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> I will try to update as often as possible considering that it's April and finals are approaching.


End file.
